Little Fox

A Glosa capturing the unsubtle experiences of a new-born fox.

                         

In the dark of the den, the mother waits,

She is born blind with soft red fur:

Gently, mother fox lays her head

Patiently she waits in darkness for days

When the light of day floats in.

She sees them rush across in a herd,

A mother deer and her baby.

And her mother, looking on, heard:

“My heart is like a singing bird”

The little fox strolls with her mother out

Through fields and vast meadows beyond.

Her eyes shined with the reflection, of the sun sparkling dewy lawn.

Until a bird in mad alarm rushes past

Prompting little fox to follow in suit

Out of the meadow and into the brush

Little Fox bounds after the bird.

She finds him panicked at the base of his root,

Whose nest is in a watered shoot.

Mad chirps follow the breeze

As Little Fox looks on.
She glances at the draining nest

And steps with her little paws;

With clenching teeth she drags it out.

The bird cries out with glee!

“Have an apple from my home Little Fox”

She steals a glance at the red fruit

And with a prideful warmth, she does decree,

“My heart is like an apple tree”.

The Little Fox walks back, content.

En route to her little den.
Footprints paint the ground in a trail

One’s she’s never seen, that of men.

It leads her back to her home

To her abode beneath the root.

Her mother is lying draped in red,

And Little Fox is paralysed.

Her heart was an apple tree, absolute,

Whose boughs are bent, with thickest fruit.